he-wolf

Mission Log: I.iv THE HALLWAYS…            White ran through the corridors. It wouldn’t be hard to find the bridge, the uppermost place of the ship. The hallways were clearly marked. The stairs seemed steeper as he challenged gravity. But he kept onward, it was life and death. He might just save him. He’d already restrained the hijackers, untied the crew, now there was just one left of each - the Captain and Bloodvest, the pirate leader.              White now heard shouting through the walls. The Captain might have been struggling with the gunman. If a gunshot rang out, it was bad news.                The noise led him

Mission Log: I.iii CARGO HOLD WALKWAY…            The cargo hold is the perfect battlefield - many places to run, many places to hide. The containers sat moved out of line, forming a maze, or - to think beyond the boxes - an assault course, with spaces to squeeze through, ridges to climb, and gaps to jump from one to the next.            White crept leftward around the walkway, making a mental map of all the levels, twists, and dead-ends underneath. He spotted a container held up by a ceiling claw at the centre. Three masked gunmen sat below it. White lowered his goggles from under his balaclava, and switched to zoom-mode. He

They have been around since the sun. The inspiration behind fairies and flying saucers. In a photo, you’d think it was rain. Now scientists know the truth. “Space rain” exists. A rare natural event, similar to the northern lights, also a blessing to have witnessed. Like snow it needs the right conditions. Still, I was there. As I stood outside that night, I saw stars in the sky, although it was too cloudy. Soon it’s like a billion tiny dots zizzing in zigzaggery yonder. Falling, when under the streetlights, they shine brighter, moving slower then snowflakes, more steady then leafs. They are upon me now. W

My heavy head is lying down In a dim and quiet room, With but a nagging voice for company. I ask many questions without straight answers, Because my old answers no longer work. My aching brain weighs my eyes down, Squeezing out what feels like tears. I of the good boys, Fight the worst of brains, In an arena built to spare others, Yet still I hurt them. “You ARE a horrible person then!” Tis a never-ending cycle, Months without warmth; Of a clean winter blanket, Or the soft embrace of a simple hug.

“Where there is sea…” Mission Log: I.ii  ENGINE ROOM STAIRWELL…                White glided down the stairs, certain no guards were on patrol. Not even his newly procured vest, dual side arms, grenades, and automatic rifle slowed his pace.                  He paused, for he felt a static-like prickling in his skin. It wasn’t just instinct - it was his wired wetsuit picking up electrical waves in the air. Experience told him it was too erratic to be the turn of a turbine. More like the heartbeat of a man on the beat.                Peering over the rail, he saw an open doorway at the next flight of stairs.